


In Memoriam of Jim Moriarty

by English_Tea_Roses



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past relationship with Sebastian Moran implied, Psychological Trauma, Secret Relationship, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/English_Tea_Roses/pseuds/English_Tea_Roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has been taken captive and tortured for information by a familiar character. He is dumped on the street with no memory except for his first name, where he encounters Sherlock Holmes and is taken in. Begins roughly a week before The Sign Of Three, is not canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pain

Pain. Piercing, shrieking pain ripped through Jim’s head, turning his knees to jelly and forcing him to the ground. He stretched his handcuffs as far as the linking chain would go and clamped his hands tight over his ears, trying to muffle the horrible sound that was pumping through the cement room with the cameras and the mirror. The mirror, the horrible mirror that couldn’t be cracked no matter how sharp the torturous sound was or how hard Jim beat on the glass. When the torture stopped for long enough, Jim could see the snowy, pale skeleton of a man he had become, with great sunken black eyes and a graying ebony hair and beard. He did not know how long They had held him in the room in real-world time, but in his beaten mind he had lived in that room for a century. Other than the all-seeing mirror, the room was pure, solid cement without windows or doors, just a vent to cycle air up by the cameras on the gray ceiling. He supposed there was some trick with the mirror that let Them in to bring him meager food or personally torture him, but he did not know it and could not think to find it out. Occasionally, the vent would expel a thick, choking blue gas or else close up entirely, leaving him to suffocate in his own carbon dioxide.

His ears were bleeding now, hot and thick on his hands, and he considered licking off the blood if only to slake his thirst. He had not drunk anything in two days and his tongue was dry and swollen in his mouth. He was even beginning to hope that the next torture was waterboarding, though with how cruel They were, it would be saltwater or else poisoned so he couldn’t drink it. The shrieking noise grew in volume until Jim gave into it, screaming and screaming until he blacked out on the cold floor.

When he opened his eyes, he was cuffed by the legs and arms onto a metal chair, his back to the mirror. The pain in his head was agonizing, but he could still hear, at least. Though perhaps They would just let him die if he could no longer hear their interrogation.

“What is your name?” the sharp familiar voice said. A tall, portly, redheaded man walked into Jim’s line of vision. He was, as always, smiling; Jim had started to think of him as a demon.

“J-J-J-“ he swallowed, “Jim. Please, may I have some water?” And so the dance began. The man’s pleasant smile thinned into a grimace.

“Of course, of course! Once you’ve given me what I want, that is. Last name?” The hand with the gold ring slapped him once, hard. Jim barely felt it anymore.

“Don’t remember.” Every word was like cleaning his throat with an iron file.

“Good, that’s good, Jim. Tell me who’s your second-in-command,” the man said. They beat names out of him, one by one, but there was one name that he would not give to them: Sebastian Moran. He didn’t remember who Sebastian was or how he knew him, but he did know that he was the most important person in his life and that he would rather die than give them that name.

“No,” Jim spat with as much defiance as he could muster. The man frowned and beckoned over one of his cronies, a bald man in a black suit.

“Gustav, get the Electrodes. He’s not giving up this one. It’s really a tragedy, Jim, we could have done this the easy way.” Gustav walked behind Jim, there was a scraping sound, and suddenly he was back. Jim detested the Electrodes, the thick metal pins They shoved under his fingernails. The redheaded man turned up the electricity and shocked him until he talked; it was Their most effective and painful method of interrogation. He had been able to handle three notches on the redheaded man’s remote thus far, but knew that the deadly shock was not far off. He almost wished it would come already and end the pain.

The splitting pain now shooting up his arms as They brutally shoved in the pins was almost commonplace to him, something that was unpleasant but normal. The redheaded man handed the remote off to Gustav and gripped the arms of Jim’s chair, leaning in close enough that Jim could smell the sweetness on his breath.

“Now, I’m going to ask you again. Who is your second-in-command?”

“F-fuck. You,” Jim said. He braced his back against the chair and waited for the shock. The man shook his head

“Give him two, Gustav. For his impertinence,” the man said. He stood back and Gustav turned the dial two notches. Jim writhed against his bonds in agony, the shocks traveling through his body at lightning speed and turning every nerve into liquid fire. When it finally ended, he was sweating and panting, his jaw aching from clenching it to avoid screaming.

“What now, Mr. H-“Gustav began but was swiftly cut off.

“Don’t say my name, you idiot! He clearly doesn’t remember me at all and I’d like to keep it that way,” the man berated Gustav, then turned to Jim, “That wasn’t good, was it? Tell me who is your second-in-command!”

“Never.”

“Give him three. Tut tut, Jim, you _don’t_ want another level.” The shocks ripped through him again, worse with each passing second. This time he could not stifle his cries and sat limply in the chair once it was over.

“Who is your second-in-command?”

“Nobody. I don’t have one!” Desperation tore his mind in half. The man actually laughed at his feeble attempt at trickery

“We both know that isn’t true. Gustav, give him four.”

“Four, boss? Is that safe?”

“He’s damaged goods anyway, people like him can stand a little frying. Do it!”

Gustav shrugged and cranked up the dial. Jim’s mind turned to static and his screams echoed off the walls of the room. The pain made him go blind, deaf and there was nothing but hell itself.

“S- _Sebastian Moran!_ ” he cried at last, after hours of the shock that stopped periodically to keep him alive.  Jim’s hearing and sight slowly returned. The man smiled and motioned for Gustav to stop the Electrodes, which was immediately obeyed.

“Now, was that so difficult?” the man asked. Jim did nothing but sit there and sob as they pulled out the Electrodes and put them back in their shiny black case; if he had had anything in his system he would’ve excreted it like a toddler. He was untied and given a bottle of water, which he gulped down and promptly threw up. The man stepped back, disgusted, and two cronies cleaned Jim up and gave him another bottle. He sipped this one slowly.

“What now, boss? We gonna kill him?” Gustav asked.

“That will not be necessary. We do, however, need to be _insured_ that he will not remember himself, us, or what went on in this room. But how?” the redheaded man wondered and Jim thought he could see the gears turning in his brain, “Ah, I have it. Stick the Electrodes into his temples.”

“Boss?”

“You heard me. Stick them in and give him a four. When he has passed out from the shock, take him and dump him in an alley somewhere far from where we picked him up. He must be kept in London, but nowhere near my brother or myself, you understand?” The redheaded man took Jim’s water bottle away and placed a mouthguard between his teeth to prevent him from cracking them.

“Yes, boss. I understand completely.” Gustav took two Electrodes out of the case and stuck the pins into Jim’s temples while another guard held his head still.

“Good. I wash my hands of him,” the redheaded man said and walked out of Jim’s line of vision. Gustav and the other guard stood back, then Gustav turned the dial.

Blinding white pain flashed through Jim’s mind, then he saw no more.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim wakes up in a damp, dark alley with no memory of his life or the torture.

When Jim had been very small, perhaps four or five years old, he had slipped out of his mam’s grip while out shopping and gotten lost in Dublin. He had wandered around for ten minutes or so on his own, taking in the huge buildings and the crushing crowds of people. Soon, however, he felt tiny, afraid, and utterly alone. The buildings seemed like monsters, the people like a great ocean waiting to swallow him whole. He began to wail, as children are wont to do, and finally a friendly businessman asked him his name and where his mam was. He had sniffled and told the businessman that his name was Jamie Moriarty and he was lost. The businessman lifted him up and started shouting that he had found a lost little boy and to make way. His mam was there in an instant; young Jim had walked barely half a block from where she lost him. From then on, Jim had always ensured that he had a map in every city or at least someone who knew the city well.

 Jim, of course, no longer remembered his childhood now that every memory had been shocked out of his brain. He didn’t remember having memories or the treatment that destroyed them. The night he woke up, he was behind a dumpster in the back of a dark alley. The ground was damp below him and the stench of foul garbage made him turn over and vomit before he even sat up. Once he had coughed up the rest of the bile, he wiped his mouth and noticed three letters written in black marker on the inside of his wrist: **J I M.** Jim? Was that his name? The only thing he knew was that someone, somewhere, had done something very bad to him and left him to rot, but he couldn’t recall the details. It was like an eraser had been wiped across his mind, he couldn’t think of anything prior to waking up.  

On shaking legs, he stood up and, on instinct, checked his clothes to see if they triggered any memories. A plain black t-shirt, jeans, a light gray zip-up hoodie, and white trainers; they were clothes that were as anonymous as he was and seen on everyone from toddlers to pensioners. Whoever had abandoned him there had clearly done their job well. Jim stuck his hands in his pockets and exited the alley into an unfamiliar, busy street. Cars rushed by, people pushed past him, and the lights were so bright that he was temporarily blinded before putting up his hood to protect his eyes. He leaned back against the nearest building, dizzy from sensory overload, tried to figure out where he was. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. He went onto the pavement and grabbed a porcine young man who was dressed in an obnoxiously loud red tracksuit.

“Oi, what do you think you’re doing, perv?” the lad shouted. Jim shrank back in fear and held onto the lad’s sleeve.

“P-please, could you tell me what city this is?” Jim asked. The lad stared at him.

“You taking the piss? It’s London, innit?” he asked. London. Jim knew about London. He let go of the lad and the lad dashed off, muttering about crazy homeless people. Jim watched him go then leaned back on his patch of wall. Breathe. London. Breathe. He could handle London; at least they spoke English like he did.

When he had gathered himself, he stuck his hands in his pockets and followed the crowd down the street. At the nearest crossing, since he had nowhere particular to be, he headed west. West felt right, like he had a purpose in the west of the city. After only a few minutes of walking, he became acutely aware of how loud his stomach was rumbling. He checked his jeans pockets for any type of food or money, perhaps a few pounds so he could buy a sandwich or something. To his great disappointment, he found nothing but lint. He kept walking until he felt so weak that he couldn’t go any further, a mere hour and a half later. He buckled down in an empty doorway and curled up inside his jacket. He was so exhausted that he ignored the pangs of hunger shooting through his body, closed his sore eyes, and went to sleep.

_Jim was running, running, running down a long, darkened hallway. Behind him he could hear the sounds of pursuit, from a team of at least twenty men. Where was- Sebastian? Was that his name, Sebastian? Why had he abandoned Jim? He had hired him to protect him and now where was he? Jim’s expensive suit jacket caught on a nail and tore, leaving a fine silver strip of material behind on the wall of the hotel. “There he is! There he is!” cried someone far behind him. He felt a sharp pain on his shoulder blade and fell to the ground as the tranquilizer took over. Then the grinning face of The Nightmare Man loomed over him as his vision faded…_

He jerked awake into the light of dawn, his fist shoved in his mouth to muffle his screams. Panting and shaking, it took him a while to realize that he was not in the hotel, but instead on a city street. London, he told himself, your name is Jim and you are in London, The Nightmare Man isn’t here. Despite the cold and the aching hunger, Jim felt safe. He sat in the doorway and leaned forward, head in his hands. He felt something drop on his back; when he checked it, he saw that it was a five-pound note and the person who had given it was gone. He stood up, body sore from the awkward sleep position, and stretched. Where could he eat in London for five pounds? While he was heading west, he noticed the suits on the businessmen were getting finer and finer the farther he went. Finer suits, he knew, cost more money. So west was more expensive; he turned around and headed back the way he came from.

The city woke up as he walked and more workers came out of buildings, passing him on the pavement. He passed his alley and found, very near to where he had been dumped, a café that was little more than a hole in the wall. He entered, ringing the little bell above the door as he did so. The interior was shabby red vinyl, nothing special, but nothing disgusting either. He went up to the coffee-ring stained counter, sat down on one of the stools, and rang the little bell for service. An old woman, perhaps twice his age with snowy white hair, came in from the back kitchen. She looked him up and down, squinting into her bifocals, and wiped the spot where his arm had laid on the counter.

“Can you pay, love? We’re not a charity,” she asked him. Jim self-consciously smoothed back his long hair and straightened his clothes. He took out the five-pound note and set it on the counter; she took it and held it up to the light.

“What will that get me?” Jim asked her as she inspected it, voice rusty from disuse. Satisfied by the note, she pocketed it.

“Since you’re so skinny, I’ll be nice and give you breakfast and coffee. In exchange, you will clean for an hour and give me the five-pound. Deal?” she asked him. The money was already in her pocket, so he couldn’t exactly say no; besides, at least the café was warm and would feed him.

“Deal. Thank you,” he said. He took the opportunity to pick up a newspaper, which would at least give him _some_ context for this strange new world. He learned who the prime minister was, that there was a bust on an international crime ring by DI Greg Lestrade and an unnamed detective, and that it was November 15, 2014. The date held no real meaning for him, but he was interested in the crime story. Something tugged on the edges of his brain, but it disappeared as soon as the owner, whose name tag said **BETHANY** , set down a steaming plate in front of him.

He dug in like a wolf, barely even tasting the hot eggs, sausages, toast, and baked beans. It was like nothing else mattered but the food, when had he last eaten? He was done within minutes and then sipped his coffee, full of cream and sugar, slowly. Bethany stared at him, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Hungry?” she ventured. Jim nodded, comfortable for the first time in an age. When he had finished his coffee, she handed him a dish tub and a rag and told him that he would be cleaning tables. But first, he had to pull back his hair for hygienic reasons. Bethany handed him a hair tie and showed him the way to the men’s room, a great relief after the coffee.

In front of a real mirror at last, he could fully appreciate how terrible he looked. No wonder the old woman had wanted to turn him out. Bloodshot eyes, wild and greasy hair and beard, and a gaunt frame made him the spitting image of a serious drug addict. The mirror itself triggered something in the back of his brain, a memory of pain and fear. After he had smoothed his hair into a ponytail and finger-combed his beard, he washed his hands and exited the washroom.              

Clearing the tables wasn’t a bad job, not really. He had filled his bus tub within minutes and was just heading back to the kitchen to wash them as Bethany had no other employees when the doorbell jangled behind him. He turned his head at the noise and spotted a tall man in a long black coat and a short blond couple walking into the café. He met the tall man’s oceanic eyes and for a moment, a mere moment, the man’s eyes widened in shock or recognition. Then the flash disappeared and the man shook his head as if to clear it.

“You okay, Sherlock?” asked the woman. He nodded.

“Sorry, I thought I saw something,” he said. The blond man looked at him disapprovingly and gestured for him to take a seat.

 "You haven’t eaten in days and your brain is starting to abandon you. I’m a doctor, trust me on this one,” the blond man said. The tall man, Sherlock, rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Yes, a fact that you’re _always_ so fond of bringing up. Can we get tea?” he called out in irritation. Bethany started hobbling over to their table and Jim took that as his indication to start on the dishes. As Jim washed, he wondered why this man had so openly been affected by his presence. Perhaps he had known him before? He made up his mind to go talk to him when he had a few minutes, but by the time he had finished his tub, the triumvirate was gone. He had missed his golden opportunity and even Bethany’s offer of food and a place to sleep in exchange for work didn’t cheer him, though he gratefully accepted it.

Who _was_ that mysterious man? And what did he know about Jim’s past?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually starting to interest me more as a complex work, so you should expect more regular chapter updates. I'll figure out an availability schedule, but keep an eye out for updates until I announce it!
> 
> -Silas

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this trifle. More to follow at a later date.  
> -Silas


End file.
